


Can you Keep a Mermaid?

by space_seals



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Beach, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Small Town, Beach House, Blood, Confused Keith (Voltron), Experimentation, Fisherman Shiro, Homesick Lance (Voltron), I Don't Even Know, M/M, Swearing, mermaid lance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:00:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24354703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/space_seals/pseuds/space_seals
Summary: Life on the island of Weddell rarely ever changes. Fishermen sail off to sea, the harbour of Weddell town bustles with townsfolk until summer injects a few extra hundred people... and Keith works at the pub five days a week. Just as he always has, and probably always will... until a storm brings something new into his life.
Relationships: Keith/Lance (Voltron)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 28





	Can you Keep a Mermaid?

**Author's Note:**

> I imagine Keith's house (well really, Shiro's house) to be like the house on the cliff in Ponyo? But anyway, imagine it how you want and I hope you enjoy! Sorry it's short, I just wanted to post something before I back out of doing it... Oh well, we'll see whether I update or not.

Keith has always found that the weather matches his mood. At least it always has on Weddell. Although he'd never admit it, it's one of the reasons that he can never imagine himself leaving. The island, windswept and wild as it is, can only ever be home to him.

But on this night in question, the weather is as dark as how Keith feels. Oppressive storm clouds stretch as far as his eyes can see, purple-grey blots that dump buckets upon buckets of rain upon the island. Lucky for him, he's sheltered inside. Snuggled on the sofa, cryptid documentary filling in the silence of the house.

What Keith would give to have Shiro right now, especially after reading the letter that is now the floor, screwed into a tight ball. Another rejection letter. It seems that no one wants to represent Keith's horror novels. Of course, he knows he could always self publish but with the scant resolutions on Weddell, it certainly would be difficult. But, for now, Keith is covering the sting of rejection with the same plaster as he always does: cryptid documentaries. 

If he hadn't have watched his favourite Mothman documentary a few days ago, he would've stuck it on. Old habits die hard. But tonight, this stormy night, requires something different. A Kracken documentary, one that he has never seen; combined with a massive bowl of pretzels. A plaster that still doesn't seem to dull the sting as much as he wants it to.

With rain lashing the window, howling wind and waves as high as trees, the atmosphere matches his documentaries completely. But Keith shifts, eyes glancing to and from the windows and the view of a roiling ocean. Distracted from his distraction, what would Shiro say?

But as Shiro isn't here, he can't stop Keith from throwing on his raincoat and braving the storm. As soon as he opens the door, the wind blasts him and steals whatever warmth Keith has. With any luck, it will also break his bad mood.

Flashlight in hand, Keith powers forward into the storm. Stopping at the edge of the cliff and watching the roiling waves batter the coastline. In the small cove that is joined by stone steps to the back garden, the waves nearly fill it completely. Slamming against the stone cliffs with a ferocious anger. 

It's mesmerising. 

Keith can't help smiling as he watches it, a brief lapse in his usual stoic disposition. It always is gratifying when the weather matches his mood. In fact this storm is more comforting than any of Shiro's wise words would've ever been, for Keith wouldn't see his own anger mirrored so perfectly as this. And for someone who feels so alone, so adrift, it's comforting to see his own anger being shared by something else. 

Keith notices the wave, larger than the others, start to charge it's way to the shore. Having lived on by the ocean all his life, he knows to back up slightly and keep his torch - pitiful as the beam may be - trained on the violent water. But as he scans the beam he catches something - a hand? Flung out of the water and grasping for air, help, anything that is not dark water. Keith's eyes widen and despite his better judgement, moves to see if the hand really is there. 

The wave hits the cliff a moment later. Sending surf and spray splattering onto his boots. He sure is cold now. Recklessly, Keith scrambles to the stone steps that lead down to the cove. If only Shiro could see him now, rushing into danger without a second thought. He'd give that disappointed look, as if to say: I thought we got over this.

Keith shines the flashlight over the cove, feeling the whips of panic tag at his heels. If someone is out there, in this storm... Keith doesn't even want to finish the thought. 

Tenatively, he takes the first step. Only to be met with yet more cold, salty spray. With every wave, the small sandy beach is drenched. Even Keith, reckless as he is, knows that there will be no way that he can get down there. 

"Fuck." 

As more and more waves, becoming steadily higher and higher start to roll in, Keith starts to back away. There is nothing that he can do for the mystery person, if it even was a person. The only way he could be helpful is by staying warm and coming back out to search in the morning. Plus, he couldn't go to work with hypothermia.

Keith sprints back to the house, fumbles with the lock due to shaky, shivering hands and then stops. From in the direction of the ocean comes a mournful keening. Not high enough to be from a dolphin, but not deep enough for a whale either. Cocking his head, he listens. The sound seems to tumble and dance on the wind, much like the waves themselves. Keening and searching for something lost in the storm. 

Crack.

With the sudden boom-crack of lightning, Keith jumps. While the house's porch shields him somewhat from the rain, he doesn't want to take it's chances with lightning. So, with any other wonder at just what that noise is, Keith retreats inside.

All the while, the mourning cry drifts further and further away on the wind.

-

Even though he has his own bedroom, Keith wakes up on the sofa. The storm has dissipated and the warm sunlight that is in it's place lights the living room and beckons Keith to wake with a groan. His bones crackle and pop as he stretches, still wearing his clothes from yesterday. 

Just another day... Work in the evening and the return of Adam and Shiro. 

What about that hand in the storm?

With that thought, Keith lurches from the sofa. Launching into action with a quick sip of water from the glass he left out last night. How could he forget about the hand? The weird keening noise? Even on Weddell those things are categorically not normal.

Tugging on his trademark red jacket, Keith sprints from the house and striding out into the cliffside garden. The ocean is flat, a glistening sheet of azure; with no large waves to block Keith from getting to the cove. So, he takes the stone steps at a mile a minute. Nearly tripping a few times on his way down.

Scanning the beach, Keith ignores the pebbles, the sand and the placid sea and - there! A human figure by the rock. Accelerating, Keith skids his way over. Luckily, it seems as the mystery person just missed the rock which, had they had hit in the storm, would have caused a hell of a lot of damage. 

As Keith draws closer, he sees that the figure is a young man. Although the person's skin is tanner than Keith's own, even he can see that is ringed in pallid. The kind of sickliness of someone who has been outside for hours in a storm. The frown on Keith's face loosens as he notices that the stranger has no shirt. Just an expanse of tan, brown skin that causes Keith to redden and pull at his collar slightly.

By averting his eye, Keith notices it. The tail. An aqua blue tail that seems to be in place of legs. A mermaid, no merman. Here, on Weddell. Just when Keith was thinking of walking away from the studies and writing of cryptids for good. A sign, maybe?

"You've got to be shitting me."


End file.
